by Chloe Rayban
The minute Gina got in front of the cameras she kind of radiated. I can’t think of any other word for it. You just had to watch her. She was doing this song from Grease. It was a song written for a boy, but she didn’t care. As she acted, you’d have thought she really was a boy. She was brilliant.
But there was no applause. Just a voice from the darkness saying, ‘Thank you. We’ll let you know.’
After that there was a horrible pause. I can’t remember NOTHING happening for so long in my life. I could hear my heart thumping in my chest. And then the voice came: ‘Next. Number sixty: Holly Winterman …’
I walked across the set and handed my music to the lady at the piano like the others had done. I could actually feel my legs shaking.
I was told to go and stand on the yellow cross in the centre facing the cameras. I stared out into this great black scary void and wondered if Mum was nervous for me. I couldn’t see anything out there because the lights were full in my eyes. Then the pianist looked over, gave me a nod and played the opening bars of ‘Home is Where Your Heart is’.
As I came in I could hear my voice in my head and it sounded horribly thin and tinny but I struggled on and I guess all the coaching Jasper had given me paid off because I found I was singing. And my feet seemed to fall into Stella’s step routine without me having to tell them what to do. I mean I kind of went through the song like a robot. So I got to the end somehow.
The voice came to release me at last. ‘Thank you. We’ll let you know. Next.’
I sat through the other auditions in a daze. Most of them were good, far better than me. But none of them was a patch on Gina.
When we got back to the changing rooms we found Gina’s mum was there. She gave Gina a hug.
‘Well done,’ she said to me.
‘But I was terrible.’
‘Not once you got started. You were fine,’ she said. ‘Now, sit down with us and eat something. You look white as a sheet.’
She opened her carrier bag and passed a pack of sandwiches round. They were peanut butter and cucumber in thick white bread. I’d totally stopped feeling sick by then and was ravenous. They were yummy.
Abdul appeared as I ate my third sandwich. He was holding my coat. ‘You better put this on, it’s still pouring with rain,’ he said.
‘Where’s Mum?’ I asked as I got in the car.
‘I dropped her off earlier. She didn’t want to hang around.’
So I’d have to wait till later for her verdict on my performance.
The limo swept off through the rain. Some way down the road I caught sight of Gina and her mother, making for the underground. They were getting soaking wet but they didn’t seem to care. They were laughing and chatting together. I was just about to tap on the glass and tell Abdul to stop and give them a lift when I thought better of it.
I felt ashamed somehow. Me being in the limo and them outside in the rain. And I was kind of envious too. Not just because she was so brilliant at singing. But because of the way she was fooling around with her mum. They looked so …
So like a mother and daughter ought to look.
8.30 p.m., the Penthouse Suite,
The Royal Trocadero
Mum’s called me up to see her.
She’s lying in the bath when I arrive.
‘It’s OK, you can come in. God, that was exhausting.’
‘Was I really bad?’
‘Course you weren’t, babes. With a bit of help from some sound fellas you’d’ve been fine.’
‘The others didn’t need any help. Did you see the girl before me?’
‘Babes, there were so many …’
‘No, but you must remember her. A redhead. She did a song from Grease.’
‘Hmmm, ginger hair. I never could stand redheads. They look so undercooked somehow.’
‘Mum, I’m talking about how she acted. She was brilliant. She should get the part. You did vote for her, didn’t you?’
‘Hollywood, I am only one little person on the selection committee. Besides, it’s all confidential. I can’t disclose how I voted. If she’s as good as you say, I guess she’ll get on the shortlist.’
‘Shortlist?’
‘Umm. You can’t cast a movie in one day, you know, babes.’
‘Mum. There’s no way I could get on that shortlist. Is there?’
Mum looked at me wide-eyed. ‘How should I know? It depends how the others voted.’
This was reassuring. I wouldn’t put it past Mum to vote for me. But the others couldn’t be blind and deaf.
‘Well, I just hope they hadn’t all fallen asleep when Gina came on, because she’s really nice. And so’s her mum. They shared their lunch with me.’
‘And just think. If you hadn’t been so stubborn and queued like that, you could have been through and done in no time, and had lunch with me and Mr Schwarz at the Ivy.’
‘You went off for lunch?’
‘Holly, there were eighty-something girls to see. There is only so much a person can take.’
‘Mum, I don’t believe you even saw me. Or Gina.’
‘What I saw or didn’t see is beside the point. Now could you just leave me, please, to get some peace?’
Mum had on her ominous ‘I want to be alone’ face. So I left.
That beats everything, I thought. She didn’t even see my audition. So there’s no way I could get on the shortlist. That’s for sure.
Tuesday 1st April, 9.00 a.m.
Suite 6002, The Royal Trocadero
Vix has rung down to say that she’s had an email to say I’m on the shortlist.
‘Oh ha-ha, very funny. April Fool to you too.’
‘No, but really. I’m not fooling.’
‘Then they must be.’
‘No, listen, Holly. No one is joking, OK?’
I head straight up to see Mum to find out the truth.
Mum comes bursting out of her bedroom saying, ‘Hollywood, babes. I’ve just heard. I’m so proud of you!’
I’m on the shortlist.
She’s hugging me as I protest: ‘But that’s impossible!’ I remind Mum how good the others were.
‘Have you no faith in Jasper as a teacher?’
‘How short is this shortlist?’
‘How short is it, Vix?’
‘Umm, around ten, I think.’
So that’s nine other people who are way better than me.
‘Do you happen to know if a girl called Gina is on it?’ I ask Vix.
‘Yep,’ says Vix, peering at the screen. ‘There’s a Gina. Gina Locardi.’
‘That’s her. She was brilliant! I mean, Mum, Gina actually looks like you – you’d only have to change her hair. She’s petite and skinny and she’s got this knock-out smile. You’d better make sure she gets it.’
‘You really don’t want the part, do you, Holly?’ says Mum with a pout.
‘You know I don’t.’
‘I hoped things might’ve changed. You’d think you’d have some of your parent’s ambition, that’s all.’
‘I just hate performing in front of people.’
‘But you did it for the audition.’
‘That was different. That wasn’t a proper performance. And since I didn’t want to get the part anyway, it didn’t matter. There is no way I am going to do another audition.’
Mum is silent for a moment. Then she folds her arms and walks over to the window and stares out.
‘Of course, the next audition is going to be way harder,’ she says.
‘Exactly,’ I grunt.
‘There’ll be spoken dialogue too. You’re going to need a voice coach.’
‘No, Mum, listen. I’m not doing –’
‘Now what was that piece you were doing with Rupert…?’
‘Rupert …?’
‘Umm, that “Shrew” thing. I think in the circumstances I might have to reconsider my decision to suspend him. It could be really hard to find someone to coach you at this short notice …’
Rupert. She’s going to consider getting RUPERT back? I am going to have to reconsider the audition.
‘I remember he said there was one piece you did so well …’
‘It was Shakespeare. From The Taming of the Shrew.’
‘Whatever. Would Shakespeare be all right, do you think, Vix?’
‘I should think Shakespeare would be perfect,’ says Vix.
‘He’s probably not free,’ I say.
‘Vix has already rung him. He’ll be back this afternoon,’ says Mum with an angelic smile. She gives me a another big hug and leaves.
2.30 p.m., Suite 6003, The Royal Trocadero (otherwise known as heaven)
RUPERT is back. He’s even wearing his navy blue polo-neck (sigh). I find him with his head down marking the stuff I did while he was away. He’s given me an A+ for the page I did of the dance steps. (He thought I was a plotting a graph.)
The rest of the morning is spent going through my speech from The Taming of the Shrew.
‘My God, your mother’s got ambitions for you,’ says Rupert as we take a break. ‘You should have heard her on the phone.’
‘Mum rang you?’
‘Yep, she was very persuasive. I was about to leave for Tanzania.’
‘Tanzania?’
‘Umm, I’ve got this teaching post for a year. Setting up a school in this really remote area. I managed to put off going for a week, though.’
‘So you’re leaving?’
‘Not for a week.’
‘But won’t it be very dangerous there?’
Rupert looks at me curiously and then laughs. ‘Hey, Holly, you sound almost like a girlfriend.’
I feel myself blush scarlet at that.
‘No way!’ I say. ‘Yukkk!’
‘OK,’ says Rupert, handing me my copy of the play. ‘Let’s get back to work. Now where were we?’
We go over the speech where Kate really has to spit out the words at Petruchio. The one he said I did so well that time way back. But my heart’s not in it. I keep on thinking of Rupert going away for a whole year and getting this big lump in my throat.
Rupert stops me mid-sentence. ‘Will you please concentrate, Holly? Don’t you remember how you did the speech before?’
I shake my head.
‘What’s up?’
‘I don’t even want the stupid part anyway.’
‘You don’t?’
‘No, it’s all Mum’s idea. She won’t be content until she’s turned me into a clone of herself.’
‘It’s only natural, I suppose, to want you to follow in her footsteps. You are her daughter, after all.’
‘But I’m nothing like her. And I’m no way as good as the others.’
‘Then you won’t get the part.’
‘You’re right. There’s this girl Gina. She even looks like Mum. I don’t stand a chance against her.’
Rupert shakes his head at that and says with a simply adorable smile: ‘You’re a funny girl, Holly.’
‘Am I?’
Wednesday 2nd April
Suite 6003
I have spent most of the night wondering if ‘You’re a funny girl’ counts as a compliment or not. I have decided to give it the benefit of the doubt and make the most of the one last week I have with Rupert.
I get up early and spend an hour in the bathtub learning Kate’s speech off by heart. Eventually my copy of the play is so soggy I have to put it on the towel rail to dry.
By nine thirty I reckon I’ve got it off pat. Which is handy because I find I can’t peel the pages apart to check.
At ten Rupert arrives for an extra run-through. We’ve hardly started when the phone rings. Rupert answers it.
It’s Vix.
‘She says your mum wants you to go shopping with her,’ he says.
(You’d think, in the circumstances, Mum would want me to concentrate on my run-through, wouldn’t you?)
‘Shopping!’
‘That’s what she said.’
Thanks, Mum. She even has to louse up one of my last precious days with Rupert. I head upstairs to ask what on earth she’s on about.
Mum is dressed-down. She is so dressed down she hardly looks like Mum at all. She’s wearing a pair of old blue jeans and a grey crew neck. And her make-up is artfully done to look as if she isn’t wearing any.
‘Hollywood, babes, come and give Mama a kiss. I just thought you could help me buy some nice ordinary clothes to suit my new image. You and me, we never do anything together these days.’
‘But aren’t I meant to be …?’
‘No, this morning, we are going to have a girly morning together.’
‘But Rupert’s here for a run-through –’
‘You’ve spent enough time on that speech of yours. I want you to help me buy, you know, stuff that ordinary people buy.’
‘But Mum, this speech is really imp—’
‘You don’t want to get stale, do you?’
‘No, but –’
‘So where are we going to shop?’
I give up. ‘I dunno. Where would you like?’
‘Where do ordinary people buy things?’
‘Anywhere. You know, like high street shops, I guess.’
Mum rings down on her mobile. ‘Abdul, do you think you could find us a high street?’ She turns back to me. ‘It’s OK. He’s on to it. He wants to know the names of some shops.’
‘How about Gap? Or maybe Kookai?’
Mum frowns. I don’t think Gap or Kookai have ever featured in her shopping listings. ‘Whatever, I’m sure Abdul can track these places down.’
A high street (not quite sure where)
As we leave the hotel a hidden army of photographers leap out from behind the Trocadero’s row of sculpted bay trees.
‘Don’t take any notice,’ says Mum, giving them her Winning Press Smile. ‘They’re only doing their job. I have to put up with it, being as I am at number one.’
We climb into the limo and find it difficult to close the doors as several photographers seem intent on getting in with us. As we set off there is a little cavalcade of them following on motorbikes.
‘Mum, I don’t know how you can live with all this.’
Mum’s W.P.S. has set in for the day. She’s doing little accompanying mirror faces through the car windows. It’s really difficult to speak when you’re busy pouting, so I have to wait till we’re out of camera range before she replies.
‘You get used to it. In fact, after a while, it seems kind of odd when they’re not there.’
‘Well, I wouldn’t stand for it.’
‘Hollywood, babes, when you’re famous you have to do these things for your fans. Basically, you owe it to them.’
I thought it would be wiser not to comment on that. ‘Pass the bucket’ was about the only thing that came to mind.
There follows a girly mum and daughter morning which is as normal as it gets when you have a frantic trail of photographers on your heels. We get out of the limo and Abdul kind of kerb-crawls alongside as we stroll down this high street trying to window-shop.
Once inside Gap, Mum is recognised and the assistants are fighting to serve us. The guy who actually gets the job is so overcome he’s shaking. He brings us virtually every item in the store.
I settle for a selection of cropped trousers to try on. Mum’s in the next changing room trying on T-shirts. By eleven I’ve tried on at least twelve pairs of trousers and am feeling frayed. I suggest stopping for a coffee.
‘Yeah, sure, good idea. I’ll ask the assistant.’
‘Mum, they don’t serve coffee in Gap.’
‘Oh, really? They always do in Versace.’
I take her over the street to Starbucks. It’s a small Starbucks, so maybe we can get some peace. The photographers are left outside and have to content themselves with snapping us through the window.
By midday, Mum and I are back in the limo having successfully bought some totally normal T-shirts, some really ordinary cut-off trousers, a couple of casua
l sweaters and two identical pairs of trainers.
Hang on a minute. What’s going on? I’m confused now. I was meant to be getting to look like Mum. Now she’s getting to look like me.
Thursday 3rd April, 7.45 p.m.
The second casting
The second casting had to take place in the evening to fit in with Mum’s schedule. I didn’t see why she even had to be there, seeing as she sneaked off halfway through the last one.
Mum’s so laid back about this one we actually arrive fifteen minutes late. Abdul drops me off like before and takes Mum round to the far side of the studio. I rush in, in a fluster at being late, and find the others are all assembled in the changing room. At first I don’t see Gina and then I spot her familiar red hair at the far side of the room. She’s bending over to button her character shoes.
I bounce up behind her and say, ‘Hi there!’
Gina turns. For a split second I think I’ve got the wrong person. This is not the bubbly Gina I know. Her face hardly registers recognition.
‘Oh, hi, Holly,’ she says flatly.
‘You OK?’
‘Yes, fine. Why?’ she continues in the same cold tone.
I can feel myself going hot and bothered trying to work out what I’ve done or said. ‘You must be nervous …’ I try. ‘I mean, you shouldn’t be. You were brilliant last week.’
Gina shrugs.
‘No, really, I mean it. You’ll get the part, I know you will …’
‘Thanks. But I reckon that’s already decided. Don’t you?’
‘What do you mean?’
Gina exchanges glances with the girl beside her. They’re both staring at me, saying nothing. I feel really terrible.
‘Look. Please tell me. What have I done? What have I said?’
The other girl glances down. On the bench there’s a newspaper open at a double-page spread showing Mum and me on yesterday’s shopping expedition.
Above a picture of us having our lattes at Starbucks the headline says:
‘HOLLYWOOD TO PLAY MUM?’